I don’t look back, and it’s not because I don’t care. God, I caretoomuch. If I see his face, I might lose the little bit of resolve I’ve scraped together.
“This isn’t forever,” I say, more to myself than him.
The door clicks shut behind me, and for the first time in a long time, I breathe. Not easily. Not fully. But just enough to take the next step.
one
BREE
I’m almost twenty-eight and I’ve been holed up at my parents for the past three months. Not exactly the glowing picture of adult independence I imagined in my twenties.
The pale yellow walls of my childhood bedroom haven’t changed since high school, and neither has the slight squeak in the floorboard by the closet. I’m standing in the middle of it all, stuffing the last of my things into my suitcase and zipping it shut with a little more force than necessary. I turn to double-check that my dress is still hanging neatly in its garment bag. That dress is more than just fabric and stitching. It’s my golden ticket, my armor, the one thing that’ll make it look like I have my life together, even when everything else makes it feel like it’s coming apart at the seams.
It’s coming on the plane with me, no question. If I’m the reason Juliette’s surprise engagement is anything less than perfect, I’ll never forgive myself.
I refuse to show up looking like a walking disaster. I’ve watched her work so hard for this, fighting through herown messes, and this is her time. I’m going to make sure she gets it, even if I have to fake it through the whole damn thing.
My best friend. My beautiful, lucky, best friend managed to find herself a hot-as-sin Scottish guy who not only wants to wife her up but is also flying me out for the occasion. Knox, future fiancé extraordinaire, booked my flight just so I could be there and witness her moment of happiness. Who even does that? A guy who knows how to treat a lady, that’s who. Talk about hitting the jackpot.
I’ll be attending this party as single and solo as they come… Well, sort of.
I still stop by every now and then to check on Dillon. I know this version of him isn’t the real him. And not all of his days are bad…just most.
I’ve had months to sit with all the silence and space. Somewhere in the ache of missing him, everything started to come into focus.
Technically, we’re still together. I walked out when he was already crumbling. Breaking up felt like twisting the knife. I couldn’t do that to him when he was already drowning.
So I held on. Just barely. Clinging to this fragile thread of hope that maybe he’d find his footing again. That he’d reach for me. Fight for us. That the man I fell in love with would resurface, even if it was just in pieces.
He didn’t. He hasn’t.
Eventually, I picked up the phone and called his parents. Not because I was angry or to punish him, but because someone needed to know. Someone had to see what I couldn’t fix anymore.
It wasn’t cruelty. It was the kind of mercy that shatters you when you realize love isn’t always enough to save someone.
What I haven’t said to anyone, not to Jules, not even to myself is that he didn’t just break the house. He brokeme. Hiswords, the way he’s chipped away at me over the past couple of years, have left marks that I can’t scrub off. I used to be the girl who made everyone laugh, who believed in people, in love, in the idea that things could get better.
Now? I don’t recognize the reflection staring back at me most days because I’m wearing a disguise, and everyone buys it because they want to, but deep down, I know it doesn’t fit anymore. The smile, the lighthearted laugh, the way I breeze through conversations as if everything is perfectly fine… It’s all a performance. And I hate that he’s the reason why, because in trying to save him, I’ve lost sight of myself. We were supposed to be partners, tackling life side by side, but instead, I’ve spent so much time picking up the broken pieces of him that I forgot to protect my own. For all the love I’ve poured into him, all that’s left is this facade.
The truth I’ve been avoiding is creeping in louder and louder these days. We haven’t really been together in months, not in any way that counts. And if I’m being honest with myself—it’s about damn time I start—I need to go into this trip with a clear head without being weighed down by what-ifs and half-hearted maybes.
So I’m stopping by his place on my way to the airport because it feels like the right thing to do. It’s time to look him in the eye and finally tell him I’m not coming back.
The trip’s going to be a blur anyway. I’m driving myself to the airport because it barely qualifies as a getaway. I’m spending three days in Scotland, just long enough to watch my best friend say yes to forever, then I’ll be back on a plane, racing to make my shift in Lexington. Why? Because not a single soul at the hospital was willing to pick up even one shift so I could take an extra day off.Thanks for nothing, guys.
“Hey, sweetheart,” my dad says from the bedroom doorway. “Want me to get those to the car for you?”
When I first moved back in, I told myself it would be temporary. I wasn’t sure if I’d need my own place or if I’d be going back to Dillon. I wanted to leave my options open, and now I know I’ll be needing my own place because I can’t go back there.
“Yes, please. Just don’t touch that dress with your greasy, buttery whatever fingers.”
Dad freezes, his eyes flickering to the dress hanging carefully in its garment bag, then back to me. He’s still in his Saturday uniform of cargo shorts, a faded tee from some forgotten 5K, and socks with sandals, because apparently that’s a hill he’s willing to die on.
His hands shoot up in surrender. “Got it, suitcase only,” he chuckles, grabbing my bag off the bed. “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you?”
I know why he’s asking, and it has nothing to do with the actual act of sitting behind the wheel. My dad’s been trying to find every excuse under the sun to stop me from going over to see Dillon.
“I’ll be fine.” I force a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes and busy myself with tugging the zipper a little higher on my suitcase, like maybe if I look preoccupied enough, he won’t notice the crack in my voice.
